


By Blood Connected: Restoration

by Vir_M



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: F/M, Force Soulmates, Original Character(s), Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, POV First Person, POV Original Character, Rewrite, Slow Build, Soulmates, but oh well, sort of embarrassed by this rewrite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-11-29 22:52:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11450736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vir_M/pseuds/Vir_M
Summary: Jira's new history professor—a stuck-up prettyboy named Vergil—seems to hate her. The feeling is mutual. Too bad she's been chosen as his new research assistant. Stuck, they learn to tolerate each other, until a supernatural revelation sends Jira's perception of reality (not to mention her odd relationship with Vergil) spiraling into chaos.VergilxOC. Super-duper slow burn.Rewrite of a 2006 fic, originally posted on FFnet.The original probably doesn't DESERVE a rewrite, but here we are.If you read the original this might have some nostalgia value, if nothing else.





	1. Chapter 1

To me, it seemed my story began when I was just 18.

In truth, the madness that enveloped my life without warning had been brewing for centuries. I now know my story began almost 2,000 years ago, with the fall of the demon Sparda, and the birth of his twin sons.

But I didn't know that when I was just 18.

I'm older now, as I write down what happened—older, but if we're being honest, probably not much wiser. Stubbornness is one of my most notorious flaws. Because of this imperfection, however, it's easy to get back into the character of my eighteen-year-old self. It's easy to travel back in time and recall the most pivotal years of my life. It's easy to see things not how my older, not-so-wiser self wants to remember them, but to see them how they actually transpired.

And it's imperative I remember those days accurately. It's imperative I refrain from coloring my memories with the veneer of fond recollection. I must remember the painful, the exquisite, the frustrating, the gorgeous, and the unflattering in equal measure. I must do this because I'm not writing this story for you, the reader, dear to me though you are. I'm not even writing it for myself.

I'm writing it for him.

And if I fail, this life of mine that began 2,000 years ago…it will have all been for nothing.

But you'll see what I mean soon enough.


	2. This Little Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jira makes new friends. Sort of.

I fucking _hated_ high school.

Don't get me wrong. On paper, I went to an objectively great school. Secular, private, with professors who could teach at the collegiate level, a library the size of Rhode Island, well-funded art programs, and an alumni network who promised to hook up all graduates with jobs once we entered the real world—better schools were few and far between. We boasted everything from astronauts to presidents as alumni. Some of my peers already held technology patents or literary publishing credits. Others had been on Broadway during summer programs, or had travelled abroad studying foreign politics. Nobody got into the school unless they were cream of the crop, top-level intellectual talent…or Mommy and Daddy could pay their way in. Whichever came first.

In case it's not obvious, the J. L. Tyler Academy was a prestigious boarding school for the rich, influential, or genius.

Too bad I was precisely none of those things.

I mean, I'm not stupid or anything. I'm just not a teenage Einstein. I like to read, and I'm good at retaining information, so I can keep up in class without issue…but I can't solve differential equations in my head or speak six languages. You'd think that would mean I was one of the kids who got in thanks to Mommy and Daddy's wallet, but you'd be wrong. My parents are dead (I'll spare you the sob story). I got in thanks to my aunt and uncle, alumni of the school, who called in a favor and got me a spot via scholarship.

So, yeah: that made me the poor scholarship pity-case orphan with just-above-the-curve grades, trapped in a social ecosystem of geniuses and rich people in which I very clearly did not belong.

Maybe that's why the start of my senior year felt so…destined. So heaven-sent. It was my last year in a place I didn't belong. Hell, the only place I felt actively comfortable on campus was the library.

Too bad the library would soon become the place I wanted to avoid the most.

* * *

I was elbow-deep in a book on Ancient Roman politics when someone whispered my name. When I looked up, I gasped and yelped "FUCK" at top volume. Ami stood on the other side of the table with her hands on her hips. Staring. Like a ghost who could materialize out of thin air and did not approve of curse words.

"Shhh!" she said, finger over her mouth. "We're in a _library_!"

"Yeah, a library, not a school for ninjas," I hissed back. "Don't fucking scare me like that!"

Ami rolled her eyes. "Not my fault you scare easily." Her lips curved into a smile as she rounded the table, tugged me to my feet, and wrapped me in a hug. "Jira, I missed you!"

"I miss you, too," I said as I returned the hug. "How was your summer break?"

"Oh, you know." She pulled away from me and beamed. "Fantastic as always. We'll have to get dinner and trade stories." Ami scowled. "Or did you just stay at home and read the entire break?"

Ami knew me well: she was 100% correct. I grumbled about her being a psychic before gesturing at the library around us. "How'd you even find me in here, anyway?"

"You're always in the library. Duh." She shoved her long blonde hair out of her face and scowled, grey eyes intent on my face. "But what the heck are you doing here during our lunch break, anyway? I thought for sure you'd come and eat with me."

I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. I was wearing it down today, brown strands hanging loose and long around my shoulders.

"Sorry, Ami," I said. "I saw you eating with all of _them_ out on the lawn, and—"

Her lips thinned. "They're not that bad, Jira," she said. "Sarita and the others are all nice…once you get past the designer handbags and overdone manicures, of course, but nice just the same."

I wasn't so sure. Ami was a super agreeable person. She was my best (not to mention only) friend at this school, and if she could stand my stubborn-ass personality, that was true testament to her character—but that same niceness meant everyone else liked her, too, including the It-Girl clique that generally didn't acknowledge my existence. That clique and I had been through both middle and high school together, but I'd spoken with its members only a handful of times, and generally only when they were making fun of me. When I'd gone to find Ami today, on our first lunch break of our senior year, I'd seen her sitting with all of them and just…panicked.

"Sorry," I told her. "It's just that they've been pretending I don't exist for six years. Hard to put that aside out of the blue, y'know?"

She gave me a sympathetic smile. "Yeah, I understand. But don't you want your senior year to be…I dunno, _not_ spent cooped up in a library all by yourself?"

I opened my mouth to reply. I closed it again. Well, shit. I hated to admit she had a point, but…

"C'mon, Jira," she said. She stood up, bouncing on her heels a few times in her usual gesture of excitement. "Come eat with us! It'll be fun!"

Realizing resistance in the face of Ami's urge to be inclusive was more than likely futile, I shoved my book into my bag and followed her out of the library.

It was my senior year. It's not like I had anything left to lose, as far as social standing went.

* * *

The day was crisp, the air clear and temperate. The tang of dying leaves perfumed the air. The late-summer, early-fall season had brought leaves raining down upon us. Scarlet and gold foliage crunched underfoot and created a nice, comfortable carpet on the lush grass, which had not yet browned with the season. I followed Ami outside and onto the lawn in front of the main school building, glad I'd left my sweater in my locker. Ami's other friends were sitting on a picnic blanket in full sunlight. How they weren't sweating and ruining their picture-perfect makeup is beyond me.

They glanced up when we got close. There were five girls present. The ringleader, Sarita, looked me up and down with her wide brown eyes, lips a pursed pink bud in her olive-skinned face, but I read no hostility in her features (thank the fucking lord). The girls around her followed her lead. Some smiled at me, though others reserved their warm looks for Ami. The rest just looked confused by my presence. I murmured hello when Ami and I sat on the edge of the blanket, heartbeat pounding in my nervous ears. Hopefully I could just hang out on the fringes today, not say anything, keep quiet…

For a while there, I got my wish. Conversation picked up after we settled in, topics ranging from gossip to summer stories to complaints about a revision in the school dress code barring certain types of hair barrettes (which sounded stupid even to me). I tuned much of it out. That's sort of a special skill of mine, tuning things out. Comes in handy when people lecture me, for instance. I stared at the school's smattering of ivy-colored buildings, watching as the leaves swayed on the gentle wind, the gossiping conversation lapping at my ears like distant waves. I only awoke from my self-induced stupor when Sarita said my name. I came back to earth with a snap when I heard that.

"Hey, Jira," Sarita said. "You like history, right?"

Well, crap. So much for flying under the radar.

"Sure," I said. "Favorite subject. Why?"

She held out her hand. Her pink fingernails were flawless. "Can I see your schedule?"

"Uh. Sure?"

I dug through my bag and pulled out the slip of paper detailing this semester's classes. Sarita scanned the list, then pointed at something. Her face lit up when she smiled.

"Oh, look, she's got him too!" she said. "See here?"

She leaned over and showed my schedule around. The other girls squealed and giggled, for reasons that went completely over my head. What the heck was I missing, exactly? My classmates seemed excited, grinning and tittering like we were back in middle school. When the schedule came within arm's reach, I grabbed it and looked at it myself. Nothing seemed amiss about my classes.

"Who've I got, exactly?" I asked.

One of the other girls, Janice, spoke up. "There's a new history teacher!"

"Wait. _What_?!"

I looked at my schedule again, until I found the slot for my history class. I had that class right after lunch, just a half hour from now, and underneath the title of the class—

"What the fuck happened to Professor Thrall?" I asked. She'd long been my favorite teacher, but her name had been replaced with an unfamiliar moniker. "And who the hell is Professor V. Aeneid?"

There followed a moment of silence, broken only by the light breeze tossing dead leaves together. For a minute I thought my habitual cursing had scared them or something, because when I looked up, they were all staring at me with wide eyes. Then Janice spoke.

"Is _that_ how you pronounce his name?"

Silence shattered, the girls all began to talk at once:

"He's _gorgeous_ —"

"He's really strict though—"

"He won't let us call him Ae...Ei...however you say it—he says it's too hard for us to pronounce—"

"Positively _beautiful_ blue eyes—"

"Like for real, he's just _so cute_."

I couldn't make out anything useful, so I waved my arms around in an attempt to get their attention. No one paid me any mind, though, besides Ami. She leaned over to me while everyone else babbled, eyebrows knit.

"I thought you would've noticed, since you liked Thrall so much," she said, "but yeah. We've got a new teacher." She squinted at my schedule, still lying flat on my hand. Her eyes brightened from grey to blue. "Oh, hey! We're in the same class with the new guy!"

"Oh, man," I said. "This blows."

She scowled. "I'll try not to be offended by that."

"Oh—not _you_. I meant having a new professor." I'd loved our old teacher, Ms. Thrall. Not too many women around here were as into history as I was; she was always lending me books and talking shop with me. Female historian solidarity, I guess? "I really, really liked Thrall!"

"I did too, now that you mention it." Ami looked at her friends. "Hey, guys?"

They all went quiet when she talked, not like they had with me.

"So what's the new guy like?" she asked. "He a good teacher, or what?"

Sarita answered her first. "He asked us to call him 'Redgrave,' rather than Ae—however you say it." She shrugged. "Said that the easier one was his mother's maiden name. Weird, but you can't really argue with a person's choice of name."

Another girl, named Trisha, added: "He's different. Really young, and—"

"Totally gorgeous," said a girl named Christy. "He's got these dreamy blue eyes and platinum hair all slicked back. Really pale skin, though—he's almost as pale as _you_."

That last comment she directed at me. I wasn't sure if she was being insulting or not, though her expression seemed innocent enough. I rubbed a hand down my very pale arm, suddenly self-conscious. Spending all your time reading indoors wasn't the best way to tan.

"Yeah, well, sounds like neither he nor I will ever get skin cancer," I retorted. I kept my tone light in case she'd been joking, but firm enough for her to know I wouldn't take teasing lying down. "Did he say his qualifications? Thrall had a doctorate. I hope he can measure up to her."

"He might be able to—he's got a degree from Oxford."

I turned, startled, to the girl who had spoken. She had thick glasses, a freckled nose, and brown hair worn in two short braids. She looked oddly out of place with the 'cool' crowd around Sarita. She was sitting on the edge of the blanket—and, shamefully, I hadn't noticed her until then. Ugh. And earlier I'd been complaining about being ignored by Sarita's group…

"He's also the new coach for the fencing team," said the new girl. "I listened when he gave his introduction. He was really quite interesting."

"Hey, have we met before?" I asked. I offered my hand. "I'm Jira Lancaster."

She seemed startled for some reason. "Oh. Um. I'm Karen. Karen Walker," she stammered. She gripped my fingers and shook. "It's nice to meet you."

"You, too. Sorry I didn't introduce myself earlier."

At that, Karen smiled. The gesture lit up her green eyes, raised a little color in her cheeks. Wow—she was really pretty, actually. And she seemed nice. Maybe I could add her to the friend pool, once I apologized for not noticing her…

"No problem," she said. "I know I tend to fade into the background."

I would've commented on being the same way had Sarita not started talking. "I've got Ae... _Redgrave_ next, too," she said—to me in particular, in fact, which was a little unsettling. She hadn't paid me this much attention in the last six years of school combined. "Thrall was amazing. I'm going to miss her teaching, so if he doesn't measure up...there goes my favorite class."

My brow rose. "You like history?" I asked.

"Don't look so surprised." She tossed her rich black hair, smirking. "We have more in common than you think."

* * *

It was true. Sarita and I did have a lot in common. Ami, Sarita and I walked to class together once the bell rang. We kept up a pretty constant stream of chatter the whole way there, and I'm both surprised and pleased to admit Sarita was way more chill than I'd anticipated. We traded names of history books we liked as we walked to class. She was widely read, and in some historical eras, she knew more than I did. Hadn't expected that of the Queen Bee of this school. Part of me was a little ashamed of how I'd misjudged her, to be honest (and for the last _six years_!), but I tried not to let my awkwardness show as we went inside and trekked upstairs through the throng of other students.

The history classes, all on the second flor, were set up in classic lecture hall formation: wooden tiers covered by long tables climbed like an over-sized staircase up to the back of the room. The teacher's desk sat in front of the long blackboard on the front wall, ensuring every student could see the instructor.

Our particular classroom, when we got there, looked quite spartan. There was nothing in it apart from the unoccupied teacher's desk and students' tables. Weird. Most teachers decorated their rooms with posters, artwork, or infographics about their subjects. When we walked in, I stopped and stared. Professor Thrall used to have whole murals of photos on the walls. Seeing the classroom stripped so bare made the hair raise on the back of my neck.

"New teacher hasn't had time to move in yet, maybe?" Sarita asked under her breath.

"Beats me," said Ami.

The three of us snagged seats in the middle of the room—not too far back to look like slackers, not too far forward to look like teacher's pets. We were the first ones there. I sat in silence as people filed in. Most greeted Sarita and Ami, though only a few met my eye. I didn't mind; let Ami take center stage. I was more comfortable remaining unseen as idle chatter filled the classroom. Eventually I took out the book I'd been reading earlier that day, but as I tried to take in the words, my attention wandered. I scanned the text without really seeing it. Who was this new professor? What had happened to Professor Thrall?

And where the hell was our new teacher, anyway?

When the start-of-class bell rang, my fellow students went quiet, all eyes locked on the door. The room seemed to hold its breath…but when a minute passed and the door did not swing open, the spell broke. Whispers picked up, and they mimicked what I'd been thinking earlier: Where was our teacher? And why was he so late on our first day of class?

For five minutes we sat there, wondering, waiting for _something_ to happen. My thoughts lingered on Professor Thrall. We'd traded _her_ for a teacher who couldn't be bothered to show up on time? That fucking sucked. That really fucking _sucked_. This new teacher better be fucking fantastic, or I'd go ape-shit. The blank walls seemed to inch closer, closer, and closer still, the room shrinking as my temples started to pound and my impatience ballooned.

Eventually, that balloon popped.

"Well, this fucking _blows_."

Though I'd intended to speak quietly, a few students in front of us turned to look at me. My cheeks colored, but I met their eyes and glared until they turned back around. Ami's eyes bugged out of her skull; she nudged me in the ribs with her elbow.

"Language," she growled. "Though I gotta admit—what kind of teacher is late for class on their first day?"

"Seriously though," I muttered. Sarita leaned around Ami to look at me, frowning. "They replaced Thrall with a fucking asshole."

"Girl, I agree," Sarita said (I tried not to look surprised at this turn of events—we'd never agreed on anything before). "This is just rude."

I glanced at my watch. Another two minutes had ticked by. He was going on ten minutes late—and he'd replaced _Thrall_. So not cool.

"What a joke," I said. I grabbed my book and shoved it in my bag. "If he doesn't think we're worthy enough to merit punctuality, then I don't see why we should be such precious little angels and sit around waiting for him."

Ami looked between my bag and my face a few times. "What are you doing?"

"Who, me?"

"Yes, you."

"Oh, you know." I couldn't help but grin. "This little angel's playing hooky."

"Oh, sweet," Sarita said. She grabbed her bag and stood, grinning like a cat from Cheshire. "Count me in."

Ami gazed at the ceiling, desperation and resignation waging war in her expression. "Are you two _really_ going to start the year off like this? Seriously?"

"Hey, if the teacher's playing hooky, so am I," I said. When Ami heaved a longsuffering sigh, I smiled. "Look at it this way. Somebody's gotta report a missing teacher to the office."

"And that 'somebody' is us," said Sarita. She jerked her head toward the door. "Let's go."

Ami sighed again, but she waved at the door in a gesture of "Well, I can't stop you, so have fun." The other students chattered as I descended the steps to the lowest level of the class room, Sarita trotting gamely at my heels. I heard a few of them stand up, some saying they agreed and were going to follow my lead, but I ignored them as strode over to the door, grabbed the doorknob in one hand, and wrenched the thing open—

—only to find myself staring into the bluest pair of eyes I had ever, _ever_ seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first three chapters of the original fic jammed into a chapter half the size of the originals. Lots of needless stuff cut and consolidated, including Jira being all "I'm not like other girls" (which was totally gross and evidence of the internalized sexism I held when I wrote the original fic as a teenager, blah blah). Biggest change is Jira's personality. Much as the old version accurately reflected her age (AKA obnoxious teen who thinks they're the best), I realized she's an orphan. She lives on her own, and has lived on her own her whole life. She'd be less bombastic. Less confrontational. More mature. She's still stubborn as hell and judgmental and crass, but in a more subtle way. Hopefully she still feels like Jira while reflecting the realizations I made about the realism of her character.


	3. That's Some Name, Professor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jira meets her new professor. It does not go well.

The first thing I noticed (aside from the eyes, of course) was his height. Now, I'm not tall, but I'm not a total midget. My perspective of height isn't completely warped. This man had objective bulk, and not just because he was well over six feet. He had broad shoulders, a muscular chest, and I could tell even through his blazer that his forearms—one of which was right at eye level, hand resting on the door next to my face—were positively _ripped_.

But however impressive his height, it was nothing compared to the heart-stopping impact of his face.

He had sharp, hollowed cheekbones that could grind admiring hearts into dust, an aristocratic nose, and bags under his eyes that somehow added to the intrigue of his features. And oh my fucking god, those _eyes_. He had brilliant, electric, ice-chip blue eyes. When I saw them, the first thing I could think of was _danger_. He looked like he was hiding something mysterious and deadly, glaring at me from under his hooded brow, sizing me up like he thought I might be a threat somehow. His hair was bright white, the term 'platinum' doing it no justice, and he wore it swept back out of his eyes, exposing his pale, perfect forehead. Just as Sarita's friend had said earlier, he was indeed pale.

Yet, however fair his complexion, the cool marble of his skin couldn't match the icy look in his eyes.

He stared down at me for what seemed like an eternity. I stared back, transfixed—and then I realized the entire class was sitting in shocked silence. I tore my eyes away from his and looked at the floor.

Then he spoke.

"Take your seat," he said.

His deep voice shivered up my spine like a velvet glove. It had a slight nasal quality that was not unpleasant, only intelligent-sounding—but there was a sharp edge to it, tense and biting. I looked up when he talked, just in time to see him step forward. He side-stepped me with a walk like a feral cat's, smooth and predatory. His eyes darted over the classroom like a hunter's, missing nothing. Those captivating eyes flashed to me again when he reached his desk; I jumped as he addressed me a second time.

"I said, take your _seat_."

His voice resonated with undeniable impatience. Oh shit. Had I been standing here gaping like a goddamn _fish_? The hold he'd had on me broke with a rush of self-consciousness. I spun on my heel and marched back up the stairs. Ami scooted her chair forward so I could get past her and sit down. Sarita followed. When she caught my eye, she mouthed the word 'wow,' waggled her eyebrows suggestively, and jerked her head toward the front of the class, toward our teacher.

I fixed my eyes on the table in front of me. My hot face undoubtedly looked like a tomato. When our teacher spoke again, my face grew even hotter, but I did not look at him. Didn't want to go supernova. Thank god we had super short classes today, to make room for the start-of-year assembly and stuff…

"You will address me," he said, "as Mr. Redgrave." Chalk squeaked as he undoubtedly wrote his name on the blackboard. "Given that the majority of students here are so uneducated that they would be unable to pronounce even the first syllable of my actual surname correctly—" I heard the sneer in his tone "—I will be forced to use my mother's maiden name during class. When filling out forms requiring my name, however, you will use my formal one. Attempt to spell it correctly."

Shoes knocked gently on the wooden floor, then. I looked up. Our teacher, Redgrave, had crossed to his desk and was shuffling through a sheaf of papers. He'd written the name "Aeneid" on the board in scrolling cursive.

"I believe a roll call is in order," he said, picking up a sheet of parchment. His voice cut through the silence like a knife despite its low volume. "Say 'here' and raise your hand. Abbot."

The boy in question squeaked out a frightened "here."

"Baker."

"Here"

"Higgins."

"Here."

"Holding."

"Here, sir."

"Jenkins."

"H...here..."

I mentally braced myself. I was coming up soon.

"Karmin."

"Here."

"Lancaster, Jira."

My oddball name sounded like silk in his mouth. Taking a deep breath, I raised my hand and said "here," just like he asked. Although I was facing him, I kept my eyes locked carefully on the table in front of me. I'd already stood out enough for one day, thanks so fucking much.

"That's an unusual name."

For a moment it didn't register he was speaking to me. Then Sarita made a little gasping sound, Ami speared my ribs with her elbow, and I couldn't keep from looking up. Redgrave was staring at me, haughty face set in an imperious glower.

"What is its origin?" he asked.

My response was as automatic as it was sarcastic: "Oh, you know, my mom ate a lot of cumin when she was carrying me, that's all."

Around me, my classmates tittered. Oh, god, why had I said that? Now was not the time for snark! My stomach bucked with nerves when Redgrave frowned. My face heated, but I inclined my head and held his gaze. Oh well. No backing down now.

"And how, exactly, is that relevant?" he asked.

"My name means 'cumin' in Sanskrit," I said.

For a long, thin moment, Redgrave just stared. He seemed…I don't know, confused, maybe? Like he wasn't sure if I was kidding or not? Something like that—though for the record, I wasn't kidding. My name really did mean 'cumin' in Sanskrit, although my mother had actually hated cumin before she died. My name meant something different in another non-Sanskrit language, and I'd been given my name for entirely different reasons that had to do with that meaning…but Redgrave didn't need to know that.

My reasons were private, and he did not have the right to pry into them.

Eventually, probably sensing I wasn't going to elaborate, he dropped our shared gaze and looked back down at the roll sheet.

"Interesting," he said.

He returned to calling names.

The rest of roll-call breezed by. I kept still and quiet, hoping he wouldn't single me out again. When he finished roll, he stood at the front of the class with arms crossed, eyes cold and hard and expressionless. Eerie, really. Guy looked like a fucking psychopath.

"You are my students," he said, "and as such, you are my responsibility. Those of you who choose to slack off reflect badly on yourselves." His eyes flared with jagged flames of promise. "But more importantly, you disgrace _me._ And I will not tolerate your disrespect." He sneered, then, emotion finally breaking through his dead mask. "If you are looking for an easy course, get out, now. I am not nearly as forgiving as your other teachers."

A few of my classmates murmured to each other at that, but Redgrave glared and they shut right the hell up.

"Furthermore, I will be—"

Before he could finish, the door to the room swung open, and in strode our school's headmaster—tall, bald, with a huge walrus mustache and a pot belly, Mr. Clark was good natured, jovial, and very rarely seen outside his office. What the hell was he doing here?

"Vergil, m'boy!" he boomed. "So sorry to interrupt, but would you come help me—"

Whatever the hell he was there for, I didn't hear. My vision tunneled. My hearing evaporated. The name Clark had uttered bounced around inside my head like a pinball on crystal meth.

Vergil.

The 'V' in our teacher's name…stood for _Vergil_.

And his last name was _Aeneid_.

For some reason, the whole thing struck my historian side of me as funny—outrageously so. I began to chuckle under my breath, then shake with the effort of penning it inside. Finally, I couldn't hold it in any longer: I began to laugh, great peals of sound that echoed throughout room. Through tear-seeping eyes I saw the object of my mirth look at me, saw Principal Clark staring open-mouthed, saw classmates gawking at me, and finally saw the horrified look on Ami's face. I pillowed my head on my arms, unable to stop despite the blush rising in my cheeks, despite the uncomfortable knowledge everyone in the entire goddamn room was staring at me.

_Vergil Aeneid._

_Vergil AENEID!_

"Something funny?"

I looked up. Aeneid—Redgrave, whatever his name was—regarded me with cool eyes. Hell fucking _yes_ , something was funny. The poet Publius Vergilius Maro had written the epic poem _The Aeneid_ from 29-19 BCE, and this guy's parents had used it as a freaking _name scheme_ _for their child_. Were his parents total nerds or something?

Awash in amusement, I caught my hiccupping breath and choked out: "That's _some name_ , Professor Vergil Aeneid. Bet your parents sure did _love_ fine literature!"

I pronounced his name correctly, 'ih-NEE-ihd,' and began to laugh again. Oh, god, this was just too funny—

"Detention, Miss Lancaster. Tomorrow, after school, my office—"

My laughter ceased. My head jerked up and off the table. Vergil Aeneid's stare was icy.

"—for utter insolence. Do not be late."

I blinked at him, numb with shock. He stared back without expression.

"You heard me," he said. Then he turned and stalked out the door, the principal following after.

As if on cue, the bell rang.

"You idiot!" Ami hissed as we rose. "Detention on your _first day_?"

Sarita, on the other hand, offered me praise. "Standard detentions are, what, two hours long? Lucky! You get to spend all that time with the hottest man I've ever—"

I ignored them and stomped out of the room, cheeks aflame. Ami's scolding continued until we parted at the end of the hallway. Sarita's praise continued through our next class, which it turns out we also had together. I was on the verge of pulling my hair out by the time our final bell rang. When it did, I shoved my books into my bag with near-violent force. I wanted to be home, alone, _now_.

Sarita, however, had other plans. We walked to the front of the building together (her chattering about how pretty Aeneid was all the while) and when I headed toward the school's front gate, she grabbed my arm. She looked worried for some reason, though I couldn't imagine why.

"Hey—do you not live in the dorms?"

"Nope."

She looked at her watch. "It's going to get dark soon, you know."

"So?"

"So you should probably let me drive you."

"Wait, you have a _car_?" Most students who lived on campus didn't.

"Yup!" She flipped her hair, clearly proud. "Mustang. Brand new. It's gorgeous."

"I'll bet, but I'll be OK." I waved and started to walk off. "See ya tomorrow!"

"Jira, wait—have you seen the news?"

I stopped and stared, head tilting to one side in silent question. At that, Sarita looked utterly horrified.

"Girl, it's all over Twitter!" She opened her satchel and dug through it. "One second—"

Sarita took out her smart phone, fired it up, and swiped the screen a few times. Eventually she found what she was looking for and passed the phone my way. When I read the tweet, posted by our small town's only newspaper, my heart leapt into my mouth.

MAIMED BODY OF HIGH-SCHOOLER FOUND IN CANARY

"Canary—that's just twenty miles from here," I said.

"Exactly," said Sarita. "Click the link."

I did as she asked and read the attached article. Early this morning, a girl had been found cut cleanly in half, skull crushed, on the outskirts of Canary. Her body lay right outside a small, burned-down church. The victim had been identified as a local high school girl—just barely eighteen years old. In fact, her birthday was the same month as mine. That little factoid sent a chill down my spine.

"How awful," I muttered.

" _Exactly_ ," Sarita repeated. "So you gotta let me drive you home. It's not safe."

Her offer was tempting, but I enjoyed my nightly walks. Gave me time to think. I'd be OK on my own…right?

"I mean, Canary isn't that far from here, but it's not like it's in our back yard," I said. I handed the phone back to her. "I think I'll be fine."

Sarita did not look impressed. "Jira, you don't seem to understand. What you think doesn't matter because I'm not _letting you_ walk home alone." She looped her arm through mine and tugged me after her. "C'mon."

* * *

The drive home didn't take long—I only lived a mile from school, after all. I kept quiet while Sarita chattered, watching as darkness began its slow creep through the evening sky. Eventually, as I suspected she might, Sarita started talking about Aeneid.

Aeneid. I couldn't call him 'Redgrave' in my head, try though I might. His true name was just too funny.

"He seems to have it out for you," she said. "Detention on day one, for _laughing_? That's nuts!"

"He probably felt like he needed to make an example out of someone," I said. "You know. Prove he won't take shit from us, since he's new and all?"

"Good point. And you just happened to be the first to lose your shit and crack up during class, so you were in his line of fire." She sighed. "Damn. I should've talked out of turn more."

We pulled up in front of my house, just then. Sarita eyed the little brick two-story with interest. It wasn't anything special. The massive oak tree in the front yard was rather lovely, and the white trim stood out cleanly against the red brick, but it was a far cry from the fancy houses Sarita must be used to. I'd heard her parents had, like, six summer homes, though perhaps that was just a rumor. She had certainly proved me wrong a lot today…

"Cute," she said. "It's your aunt and uncle's right?"

"Yeah." It was their summer home, though they let me live in it so I could attend school.

"Must be nice, having a place to yourself."

"I guess," I said. I popped the door open. "Thanks for the ride."

"Sure thing. See you tomorrow!"

She drove off only after I got inside and flipped on a light. _H_ _ome again, home again,_ I thought as I listened to her car's loud engine dwindle away. When I remembered the article Sarita had shown me, I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself. _Maybe I should've invited her to stay for dinner._

Much as I enjoyed my solitude—especially after a day like today—living by myself got pretty lonely. And creepy, too, when women my age were being murdered the next town over.

But I tried very, very hard not to think about that as I climbed the stairs to my dark and lonely bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, Jira's character is seeing the biggest changes. I think someone in her position—AKA someone biding their time until they can leave a place they aren't comfortable—would prefer to fly under the radar rather than make grandiose statements of rebellion/attention-seeking. She's still going to rebel (you'll see) but in more subtle ways.
> 
> If you didn't read the original, these notes make no sense. Ignore me, k thanks bye~


	4. As Fake as Sunless Tanner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jira attends detention.

The door to Aeneid's office was innocuous enough, but for me, it looked like execution gallows. Instead of an epithet describing my doom, however, the door merely bore a gold plaque that said his name in neat letters.

"V. Redgrave Aeneid."

Who knew a simple name could give me so much anxiety? My stomach felt like it was trying to take the place of my lungs, hitching and climbing up my throat. But sitting around dreading this afternoon's detention wouldn't help matters, so I took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

His office was nothing like his classroom. Where his classroom had been bare, his office was luxurious. Lush, midnight blue carpet covered the floor. Where bookcases didn't cover the warm wooden walls, paintings of historical scenes hung at regular intervals. A fireplace, empty, occupied the right wall; a long sword of eastern design lay on a stand on the mantle, unsheathed and shining. A lamp on a small table next to the door cast warm light over the room. Several more sat glowing on a huge mahogany desk toward the back of the room. The place exuded coziness; it made me sleepy just to look at it. I could imagine it in the dead of winter: fire crackling in the hearth, me curled up in one of the comfy leather chairs by the fireplace, book in hand...

"You're here. Good."

I jumped. Aeneid stepped out of a door I hadn't noticed on the left wall (I presumed this door, shoved unobtrusively between two bookcases, lead to his sleeping quarters). He held a cardboard box under each arm. Sparing me a fleeting glance, he turned, closed the door with his foot, and set the boxes on the desk. He began to open them as he spoke.

"I want you to put these in order of the time periods they cover. Start on the top shelf of that case over there—" he pointed, "the earliest on the left, running to the latest on the right." Blue eyes flashed my way. I noticed then that most of the book cases were only half full, and some not filled at all. "Do you understand the instructions?"

"Yeah," I said.

"'Yeah?'" he repeated.

His glare could melt steel. He wanted me to say 'yes sir,' of that I was sure—but something about that imperious expression of his set my teeth on edge.

Screw this guy.

"Yup," I answered. I made sure to beam at him, grin as sunny as a spring day and as fake as sunless tanner. "Crystal clear!"

I didn't see how he reacted because I promptly strode past him, plunked into the chair by the desk, and began pulling books from boxes. My actions weren't outright disrespectful. Hell, my tone was downright chipper. If he got mad I hadn't said 'sir,' I could claim it had just slipped my mind. I was toeing the line, leaving myself room for plausible deniability—but would Aeneid see it that way?

"Jira..."

I gasped and flinched. His voice came from right behind me. I swiveled in my chair and gasped again. He leaned over me, looking down into my face, one hand on the chair back and the other on the desk in front of me—creating a cage around my body, preventing escape. Despite how uncomfortable that made me, it didn't seem to faze _him_ in the slightest.

"Jira..." he repeated.

I swallowed, trying to calm my rapidly beating heart. Summoning my fake, sunny smile again, I said, "Yes, professor?"

His icy eyes contained carefully controlled tension; a muscle pulsed in his jaw. For a second I thought my game was over, he was going to call me out for my behavior—but he didn't. One second his brilliant eyes were boring into mine, and the next he'd pushed away from the desk and had turned his back on me.

"I'll return in forty minutes to assess your progress," he said.

The door shut behind him with a click.

* * *

Aeneid returned exactly forty minutes later. As soon as he laid eyes on me, he started glaring. His words were more growl than speech: "What do you think you're doing?"

"I finished," I said. I was curled up in the same chair where he'd left me, book cradled on lap, calves tucked under my thighs. "Both boxes."

Aeneid glanced at the shelf he'd made me organize. It was full. He strode over to the shelf and ran his fingers down the books' spines, checking my work.

"Fast worker," he said, albeit grudgingly.

"Not really," I said. "I own practically all of them. I knew what time periods they covered. Give me more to do next time." I gazed down at my book and casually turned a page, trying to rub my thorough lack of interest and effort in his face. "Oh, and the ones in the same time period I ordered alphabetically by author's last name."

"You own most of these volumes?" he asked.

"Yes."

He looked mildly startled. "You mean you _enjoy_ history?"

My hand clenched, book closing with a clap. "What, does that _surprise_ you?"

I regretted saying that at once, because I'd totally, _totally_ snapped at him and glared like I was trying to set him on fire—but he didn't look mad or anything. He even chuckled when I started trying to find my page again, fingers shaking, covering my flaming cheeks with a curtain of falling hair.

"No. It doesn't," he said. "I suspected you might enjoy the subject, seeing as how you were so readily able to connect the significance of my names."

"We learned about the poet Vergil in seventh grade literature class," I grumbled. "I was surprised no one else remembered."

Aeneid said nothing. He merely walked around the desk and sat in the large leather chair behind it. He laced his fingers together, elbows on the desk, and rested his chin on his thumbs, regarding me over the entwined digits. I tried not to meet his eyes.

"I did not think to prepare any more tasks for you to complete," he said.

I shrugged.

"What music do you like?"

His question came out of nowhere. Why the hell would he want to know a thing like that? Why should he care what music his students listen to? I looked up at him on reflex, straight into his blue eyes.

"What?" I stammered. "Um. Why?"

"I am _attempting_ to fill the silence," he said. Impatience colored his voice like spilt dye. "So: what kind of music do you like?"

"That's none of your business."

That time, I'd meant to be rude. Seems I succeeded. Aeneid's eyes popped wide, blue surrounded by stark white.

"Excuse me?" he said.

"My personal life isn't up for discussion," I said. "Either come up with something for me to do, or dismiss me."

He grimaced. The expression bared his teeth, an animal snarling. "Watch yourself, Miss Lancaster."

"Or what, you'll give me another detention?" I said. Anger bubbled bright and hot. "For what? Refusing to talk about my personal life with a _teacher_?"

Aeneid did something unexpected, then. In a blink, he slammed his hands down upon the desk and leapt to his feet, cold eyes blazing with hot fury. I gasped, shrinking back into my chair on reflex, but—no, no, this was _not_ OK. I stood up, too, preparing to bolt for the door if he made any sudden movements whatsoever, or said anything even remotely threatening. My limbs tingled with a surge of adrenaline…and, if we're being honest, fear.

Those eyes were sharp enough to cut. We were alone. He was just plain _bigger_ than me. And that wasn't cool, because he was a _teacher_ , for fuck's sake. He had no right to slam things when a student made him angry, or abuse his power by threatening me with detention.

I would not be bullied by this man. No fucking way.

His hands clenched atop the desk. The lines of his arms seemed to vibrate with the same rage coloring his gas flame eyes.

" _You_ ," he growled, "are an insolent little _girl_."

"And _you_ ," I retorted, "are being _inappropriate_."

Our gazes held for a moment—and then something in him snapped. Like a light went on, banishing the shadows inside, tension in him going slack. Slowly, he rose from his half-bent state, and like each step was a careful element in an intricate dance, he walked around the desk. I stiffened when he passed me, but he didn't stop. He just walked to the door and opened it.

"You're dismissed," he said.

I needed no further prompting.

I fled.

* * *

I didn't stop running until I got back to my house. Dark was only just beginning to fall. My lungs burned from exertion; every breath feeling like a knife shoving deep into my chest. Gasping, I rummaged through my bad for my key, stepped inside, and got myself a drink of water. When I recovered, I picked up the phone and dialed Ami.

"Hello?"

"Ami, it's me," I said.

"Jira!" she cried. "How'd it go?"

I filled her in on everything: the way his office looked, the task I had been given—and then I told her about our encounter at the end of the session. She gasped when I described Aeneid hitting the desk, tittering when I told her how I'd run out the door.

"What on earth?" she asked. "Does he have anger management problems or something?"

"Beats me." I hesitated. "Though I guess I could've been nicer about telling him to buzz off, but I think asking for privacy is well within my rights."

"It is. It totally is," Ami agreed. "You had every right to be blunt with him. He overstepped. That's it, plain and simple. We're 18, but he's the real adult here. He's gotta control that temper." Her tone dropped, serious. "Slamming things isn't OK. You should tell someone what happened."

Why did my heart stutter, then? To cover the feeling of unease inside me, I just said, "Yeah. Maybe."

I heard her sigh, then heard voices in the background. Ami must've covered the phone with her hand, because her reply to those voices was muffled. She lived in a dorm; she got interrupted on the phone a lot.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Some of the girls arguing," she sighed. "No one wants to go anywhere alone. Not after that girl died in Canary. But not everyone wants to go to the same places on campus, so…"

"Lots of coordination, huh?"

"Yup." I heard more background noise before Ami heaved an exasperated sigh. "Sorry, J, but I've got to go."

"See you tomorrow, then," I said.

"For sure. Bye!"

We hung up, and then I realized I was tried. So tired, in fact, that I skipped homework, skipped dinner, and simply showered and fell into bed, exhausted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, one of the biggest things that bothered me about the original BBC was Vergil abusing his power as a teacher to force Jira to spend time with him. GROSS. ICKY. This will be corrected in this version. He will not be allowed to abuse his power over her any longer. She'll snark at him when they become legitimate, non-problematic friends.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jira accepts a job and describes herself as a demon. The irony is lost on her, of course.

The minute I sat down for lunch the next day, they pounced. Sarita led the charge, of course. She and all the girls in her clique wanted to know what Aeneid's office looked like, how he'd made me spend my detention, if he was as good-looking up close as he was from afar—literally _everything_. God, it was exhausting. Ami watched, eyes apprehensive, as I told them all the details I could think of. Good ol' Ami. As soon as my well of information ran dry, she swooped in and changed the subject…to something literally no one wanted to discuss.

OK, maybe not "good ol' Ami." More like "awkward ol' Ami" in this instance.

"Did y'all hear?" she said. "There was another victim in Canary."

As if on cue, a wind whipped by, chill with the beginning of autumn (wow, creepy coincidence, much?). I reflexively dug my fingers into the picnic blanket we were sitting on and twisted. Sarita shivered, brown hands clutching at her arms as though to warm herself.

"Another high school girl," Ami continued. "They're saying it might be a serial killer."

"Christ, that's awful," Sarita muttered. She shot me a worried look. "Yeah, I'm driving you home today. And maybe every day, until they catch whoever's doing this."

I scowled, not liking that I'd been informed of what we were doing without my consent, but at the same time, I was glad for her help. The other girls nodded at her suggestion like it was only natural for her to want to drive me, despite the fact we'd only really been friends for, like, a day now.

One of the girls looked curious. "You don't live in the dorms, Jira?"

"Nope," I said.

"But you lived in them at one point, right?"

"Well, yeah. During elementary and middle school," I said. "My sophomore year I started living in my aunt and uncle's summer house off campus." It had taken them that long to realize I was capable enough to live on my own.

She grinned, triumphant. "Knew it. I remember that one time we short-sheeted your bed," she said. "Back in, like…middle school?" She laughed. "Wow, you cried over that, remember?"

I remembered. I remembered and I fucking hated it. The other girls giggled, though I wasn't laughing in the slightest. Living in the dorms had been absolute hell at times. When I wasn't getting picked on (albeit via mostly-harmless pranks), I was largely ignored. But because I hadn't really had anywhere else to stay during the school year, the dorms provided my best living situation despite my lack of popularity. My aunt and uncle spent summers with me here, but during the school year, I was on my own.

"Yeah—I'm sorry about all the pranks," Sarita said. Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Been meaning to say that for a while now."

I gaped at her. The other girls looked uncertain, but then, one by one, they followed Sarita's lead and offered some murmured apologies. My mouth dropped open more and more with every word. Was this real life? Were they actually fucking _apologizing_ to me right now? I thought pigs would fly before this happened.

"Middle school girls, am I right?" Sarita said when everyone fell silent. She tipped me a conspiratorial wink. "I don't know why we deploy soldiers in wars. Just sic a bunch of middle schoolers on the enemy. They'd surrender in no time."

"Yeah," I said. The joke came easy, accompanied by an odd feeling of lightness in my chest. "Middle school girls are basically demons in cute uniforms."

* * *

When the bell rang, Ami, Sarita and I trekked to Aeneid's history class. The lightness from before dissipated as we climbed the stairs and entered the classroom. Redgrave-Aeneid wasn't there yet (fucking _good_ ) and neither were any other students. I was glad no one was there to witness Ami whispering, "Jira, try to control your sense of humor today. You don't want another detention."

"Or maybe you do," Sarita teased. She set her bag on the table and slumped in her chair. "Or maybe _I_ could piss him off today. Score some one-on-one time with that hottie."

Ami and I exchanged a glance as we sat down. I'm not sure what my expression held, but Ami's held worry—a whole lot of worry.

"Listen, Sarita," she said. "Don't tell anyone just yet, but our professor—he wasn't…well…"

She trailed off, unsure of what to say, and then her eyes flickered to me. This was my situation, after all. I should be the one to talk about it.

"Sarita, don't let yourself be alone with Redgrave," I said. I kept my tone blunt. "He's got a nasty temper and he got physical during my detention yesterday."

Sarita sat up straight. All traces of levity vanished from her face. Ami winced at my harsh delivery, but she nodded in agreement when Sarita looked to her for confirmation.

"He—did he _hurt you_?" Sarita asked, clearly shocked. "Jira—!"

"No, no, he didn't touch me," I said. I held up a pacifying hand. "Nothing like that. But he started to ask me invasive personal questions and when I shut him down, he slammed his hands on the table. Then he stood up and just…loomed. Fucking _loomed_. And before that he got all up in my face and had me trapped so I couldn't leave." I shrugged again. "He was trying to intimidate me."

Sarita looked confused. "That's not _that_ bad, though, is it? It's not like he hit you."

"Yeah, but if he thinks hitting objects to scare me into obeying him is OK, or that using his size to intimidate a girl half his size is OK—while we were alone and isolated, I might add—I'm not convinced he'd refrain from taking it a step further if he got extra mad." I made sure to look her dead in the eyes when I spoke my next words. "He's pretty, and he didn't touch me, but that doesn't make the things he did acceptable."

Sarita considered this a moment. Then, with an exasperated sigh, she threw up her hands.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," she said. "But he's just so _pretty_. Why do the pretty ones have to be jerks?"

My lips quirked. "Because irony is stone cold bitch who wants us to suffer, that's why."

A few other students walked in at that point, so we put the kibosh on our conversation. Aeneid himself arrived right as the bell rang. My heart jumped into my throat when he walked through the door, but he didn't spare me so much as a glance—he didn't spare anyone a glance, in fact. He walked straight to his desk, set down his briefcase, and reached under the desk. From beneath it he pulled out a heavy cardboard box.

"Textbooks," he said. The box hit the tabletop with a thud. "Come and get them."

Almost in unison, my classmates stood and walked down the steps toward the blackboard, forming a line at Aeneid's desk. He had pulled a clipboard from somewhere, notating which student received which textbook by writing serial numbers next to our names.

Ami, Sarita, and I got in the line near its end. I kept my eyes carefully on the floor, not daring to look at Aeneid, not daring to attract his attention. Didn't want another goddamn detention with this ass-hat, after all. Ami squeezed my hand, whispering that she'd be right there behind me if Aeneid got weird, and soon it was my turn to select a book. I took one from the box on the desk, mechanically opened it, and read the serial number aloud.

"Thank you, Miss Lancaster," Aeneid said when I was through.

"Sure," I said, but I didn't look at him. The only parts of him visible in my downcast vision were his feet, clad in gleaming leather shoes. Dude, did he clean those every fucking day or something? They didn't have a single scuff, like they'd been waxed or—

"Additionally—please see me in my office after school. There is something we need to discuss."

That got my attention like a gnat flying toward a bug zapper. My head whipped up, my jaw dropped, and I stammered a confused "Why?" before I could even think about it.

Blue eyes glittered like ice in the sun. His all-too-handsome features sported an impressive glower. "We need to discuss your academic performance," he said. His tone lacked emotion, as cold as his frigid eyes. "Now have a seat."

For a second I just stood there, a fish drowning in air—because what did he mean, my academic performance? It was the second day of school. There hadn't been _time_ for me to fail anything, for fuck's sake! What was he playing at?

His eyes, cold as they were, told me nothing. We stared at one another for what felt like an eternity before something in my body jerked. My eyes peeled away from his as I turned my back. I walked stiffly past Ami and Sarita, both of whom stared at me in horror, and made a beeline for my abandoned seat.

He didn't address me again, that class. He taught us about the American Revolution with thorough and succinct efficiency, then left the room—and left a foul taste in my ashen mouth in his wake.

* * *

Neither Ami nor Sarita could fathom why he wanted to talk to me after school. We discussed it in hushed terms before parting ways for the rest of the day's classes. Ami's theory was that maybe he wanted to apologize, but Sarita was convinced he was going to try to intimidate me into silence about what had happened during my detention ("I still can't believe you haven't reported it yet!" she said). When the final bell of the day rang, I found Ami and Sarita waiting for me outside my classroom.

"What, did you think we'd let you go _alone_ after what happened yesterday?" Sarita said, hand on her cocked hip. "Fat chance. We're your bodyguards from here on out."

"Yeah—just think of us as your guardian angels," Ami added.

"So you two will protect me from the devil, huh?" I asked. The joke—not to mention their presence—helped ease my nerves, if just a fraction. "Thanks, guys."

Sarita winked (she did that a lot; wasn't sure if I liked the cheeky mannerism or not just yet). "Hey, what are friends for?"

Probably to get my mind off of my impending doom, they chattered about random school gossip as we made our way to the building housing Aeneid's office. They only stopped chattering when we reached his door. With stomach tangled in a labyrinth of worried knots, I gave them a nod. "Wait in the hall for me?"

"We'll be right here," Ami said.

I smiled. "Thanks."

Then I knocked on the door.

I flinched when the door lurched open, but I tried to cover the motion as Aeneid's face came into view. He'd ditched his blazer, wearing slacks and a white button-up sans tie, the casual look somehow not suiting him. Not that he wasn't any less handsome, but he certainly looked less…I don't know, intimidating? The tension in me eased somewhat. His luminous white hair and pale skin were still unearthly, but now he felt a bit more human. Like he was finally at my level, not some untouchable Adonis.

When he saw me, he started to speak—but then his eyes darted over my shoulder. They darkened from gas flame to sapphire in an instant.

"What are you two doing here?" he asked.

I glanced over my shoulder. Ami had shrunk back against the wall a little, but Sarita met Aeneid's eye with a smile. I followed her bold lead and speared him with my sunniest grin.

"Sarita's my ride home, Professor," I said, oozing confidence and lazy swagger. "May I ask how long you think this meeting will take? Don't want to inconvenience her. You understand, don't you?"

He scowled, but without venom—couldn't get too mad with so many witnesses.

"We won't be long," he said. He stepped back, holding the door open. "Your friends can wait out here."

I would've made some excuse about preferring to just talk in the hall, but when Aeneid moved, I saw his office wasn't empty. Sitting at his desk was the familiar figure of our principal, Mister Clark, pot belly and well-tailored suit and all. Seeing him, I relaxed and walked past Aeneid. My teacher couldn't get too out of line with Clark around.

"Miss Lancaster," Clark said as I walked inside. I crossed the room and sat in the other chair in front of Aeneid's desk, next to my principal. "How are you finding the school year thus far?"

"Too early to say for sure, but forecast looks fine," I said. Though I looked at Clark and his voluminous walrus mustache, my awareness focused more on Aeneid as he closed the door and took his seat behind the gigantic wooden desk. "Sorry for being blunt, but why am I here, exactly? My professor mentioned something about my academic performance but we've only had class twice now and—"

Movement in my periphery drew my eyes to Aeneid. I stopped talking. He'd crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat, face imperious and composed. Sculpted lips pressed into a thin, hard line. I couldn't read his expression. It was like a door had closed behind his eyes.

"Not to worry, Jira," said Clark. He smiled in a reassuring sort of way. "Your overall grades last year were perfectly acceptable, and you utterly excelled in history. It's that excellence, in fact, which brings us here today."

Aeneid was still watching me, blue eyes like magnets on my face. I tried not to look at him when I said, "I don't understand."

"Of course. Allow me to explain." He gestured at Aeneid. "Your new professor, Mister Redgrave, has generously donated his family's collection of literature and antique documents to our library's historical archive."

My eyes widened. Our school had a huge collection of old documents on display, making the archive in our library something of a museum in its own right. Historians came from all over to see it, and people donated money for the upkeep of the archive all the time—but to think my professor had access to materials that would fit into such an illustrious collection, let alone owned them and wanted to donate? That threw me for a fucking loop. Aeneid didn't seem like the altruistic type. What was his game, here?

"However, Mister Redgrave's collection is unorganized," Clark continued. "Even he doesn't know the extent of what it contains, though it will doubtless prove valuable. He suggested we select a student to help him catalogue the items in preparation for display." His thick lips split in a wide, jovial grin. "After considering potential candidates, he believes you would be the perfect pick for the position."

I froze. It took a minute for my brain to process what Clark had said—mainly because I was distracted, then, by Aeneid's eyes. Their cool blue color reflected silver in the gleam of the overhead lights. When our eyes met, his lips twitched in the barest ghost of a smirk. The look set my hackles to rising in a big way.

Dude. Why the fuck would Aeneid pick _me_ for a task like this?

"Why?" I blurted as soon as the thought occurred. When Clark frowned, I clarified. "Why me?"

"Simple: no one can match your grades in this field." The principal winked. "But most importantly, you're still missing an experiential learning credit."

"Oh. That."

Experiential learning was basically a fancy term for 'getting a job in your field.' All students were required to work in a field they enjoyed in order to graduate. Some people acted as teacher's aides, while others found various jobs or internships for at least one semester. Through experiential learning, all students would have a work credit and reference on their resumes when they graduated. I wasn't going to worry about my experiential learning credit until our spring semester, when my classes were at their most lax, and while this was an excellent opportunity to fill that credit…

Did I really want to work with _Aeneid_ on this?

Aeneid, the guy with anger issues and boundary problems?

Was interacting with him worth it?

"Since history is your desired field," Clark said, "it seemed prudent to afford you this opportunity before offering it to other students." He sat back in his seat, fingers steepled over his belly. "You will be credited as curator once the collection is placed on display."

My mouth dried at that.

Curator?

_Curator_!

"Your student file states you wish to work for a museum or a library, someday," said Clark. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but being named curator of a collection of artefacts spanning multiple decades, and even centuries, would be—"

He droned on in that vein for some time. Most of what he said was lost on me, because I was distracted and he was saying things I already knew. Hell fucking _yes_ , being a curator of an historic collection would be an enormous feather in my cap. Like a goddamn _ostrich_ feather. Or something even bigger—wait, were there even birds bigger than ostriches? Fuck if I knew. Point was, with my grades _and_ a credit as curator, I'd be able to take my pick of history and archeology programs when I applied to college. I'd stand out above all the other applicants like, like a skyscraper in a town of cottages or something—

I felt eyes on me, then, and flinched when I realized who was doing the staring. My professor stared like I was the single most interesting thing in the entire world. His eyes searched my face, looking for something very, very specific, though of course I had no idea what he fuck that was. He hadn't said a word since we sat down, but for some reason I was paying far more attention to him than the still-speaking Clark. And Aeneid seemed to feel the same way about me, given how hard he was staring.

Yeah. Taking this position would certainly make me stand out.

But did I really want to stand out, when it was Aeneid doing all the looking?

"Could I have an assistant?"

Aeneid's eyes widened when I said that, either because of my words or because I was glaring at him head-on like a bull preparing to charge. Take your pick. He frowned, settling himself deeply in his seat. Some small, vindictive part of my brain lit up at that. Good. Let him feel confused, or even possibly (hopefully) upset. Shoe's on the other foot now, jerk-ass!

"I assumed we would afford this opportunity to just one student," Aeneid said, addressing Principal Clark even though he kept his eyes on me. His lips curled, derisive. "With my help, Miss Lancaster should have no need of an _assistant_."

"But Professor, you have teaching duties to worry about," I said. I tried to sound concerned, innocent, and sweet, but when Aeneid's frown deepened, I knew he'd seen through me. I turned to Clark instead. "I wouldn't involve an assistant in any deep capacity. I would just need someone to help me read and take notes…"

Skin crinkled around the corners of Clark's eyes. "I don't see why not!" he said. I mentally crowed in triumph when Aeneid let out a chuff of disapproval. "So long as Professor Redgrave approves of your choice, of course."

Aeneid's eyes shut briefly, obscuring their bright blue hue. "Fine," he eventually spat. Even Clark looked taken aback by the acid in the man's tone. "She may have an assistant."

The anxiety inside me eased, rope unwinding from a noose. My professed reasons for needing an assistant were total lies. I didn't know what Aeneid's collection contained, or if I'd even require an assistant to help me, but knowing I'd have the option of choosing a companions took a huge weight off my shoulders, and made the decision to take this job an easy one.

With an assistant around, I'd never have to be alone with Aeneid. And that soothed all my worries in one neat strike.

Well, almost all my worries.

I still had no idea why Aeneid had recommended me for this position in the first place.

"On that condition, I'll accept the position," I said. I kept my tone cool, my spine straight, my stare direct and bold when I trained it on Aeneid. "When do we start?"

"As soon as possible, I suspect," Clark interjected. "It's a large collection, after all."

"Yes," Aeneid said. His voice rose barely above a whisper; I flinched when he stood, movement as fluid as a stalking panther. A lock of silvery hair fell across his forehead like a bit of spilled silk. It softened his severe features, somehow, and for a second my tricky eyes thought he almost looked…well, not happy, but maybe some weirdly self-satisfied version of content. "We begin immediately."

He held out his hand, then. Took a sec to realize he wanted me to shake it. With a brief look at the smiling Principal Clark, I rose, too, and hesitantly pressed my palm to Aeneid's. His hand was warm, borderline hot, and far bigger than my own. I let him curl his fingers around mine before squeezing back. I admit I put a bit of force into the shake—as much as I could muster, for all the good it did me in his iron grip.

I won't let you fuck with me, I told him with my eyes, with my hand, with my ramrod back and firm shoulders. No way, no how.

Aeneid didn't seem fazed by my expression. His lips just curled again, another sardonic smirk wiping away that look of vague contentment—and then he spoke.

"I look forward to working with you, Jira," he said.

His fingers—so long, so much longer than mine—lightly skimmed the pulse beating frantic in my wrist.

"Me and my assistant, you mean," I replied.

I yanked my hand away as his smirk tuned into a scowl. Luckily Clark chose that moment to start talking about paperwork for my experiential learning credit, so Aeneid's stormy expression didn't turn into a verbal challenge or something. The rest of the meeting passed in a flash. I made sure to remain stoic, cold, and unfailingly polite whenever I had to address Aeneid. I could tell he didn't like that much, but I didn't let his icy stare intimidate me.

I was a demon in a cute uniform, after all. And demons don't take shit from anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Girls protecting girls. It's a beautiful thing.
> 
> Until now, each chapter has stuck close to the original in terms of plot. From here on out, things are going to take a turn. Expect new scenes, new interactions, and sides of these characters you've never seen before, peppered with bits and bobs of familiar material salvaged from the original…spots of nostalgia nestled amid rebooted, (hopefully less problematic) content. Fun!
> 
> Clearly Vergil is still manipulating things to get close to her, but at least now Jira isn't his hostage via detentions. I'm happy about it.


	6. Don't Underestimate Me, Beeyotch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jira gets a feel for the new project.

The library, located on the northern edge of campus, looked like a castle crossed with an old stone mansion. Sprawling wings, stained glass windows, heavy oak doors, and walls of white rock tagged the thing as a relic of days long past—days circa the 1850s, in fact. I'd read every last historical plaque in the entire goddamn place. I could tell you when each wing was built down to the month.

But the only wing that really mattered, once I agreed to curate Aeneid's collection, was the one I'd spent the least amount of time inside.

The archival wing sat at the back of the library, entrance tucked amid rows upon rows of books in the dusty reference section. Metal double doors with small windows set near the top guarded the way inside. You had to know a code to get past the doors; a keypad to their left glowed pale blue, like a certain teacher's watchful eye.

"The code is 61940," Aeneid said as we approached. "Do not forget it."

I dutifully committed the code to memory. Ami typed the number into her cell phone. I felt my phone buzz in my pocket a second later; she'd probably texted it to me.

"The archival lab is climate controlled for temperature and humidity," Aeneid said. He punched the code with sure fingers. "Bring a sweater."

I started to tell him I'd be fine, thanks, but when the lock clicked and the doors swung open, I bit down on the words. A rush of cool air rocketed out of the lab and struck me in the face. Gooseflesh rose on my arms and back at once. Ami wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered.

"Gosh—how cold is that?" Ami asked.

"68 degrees Fahrenheit," Aeneid said.

The lab's construction mirrored its cold climate. While the rest of the building had warm wooden floors or rich red carpet, this place boasted hard tile flooring and immaculate plaster walls. Fluorescent lights hung from the tall ceiling; metal tables covered in lightboxes, lamps, and other paraphernalia dotted the room. There wasn't much to the lab, really. Big open space, no windows, tall ceiling, long worktables, a door on the back wall (didn't know where it went, of course). I'd been expecting something more…I dunno, impressive? Maybe the cabinets lining the walls housed something interesting, or maybe through that door…

Ami shivered, huddling close to my side. "Why does it have to be so cold in here?"

"Keeps documents from mildewing," I said as I surveyed the room. "That's why bookstores and libraries are always so cold. Don't want the paper to rot."

I caught Aeneid looking at me, then. He turned away just as I saw his eyes flash electric blue—but was that a ghost of approval I saw in his expression?

No. Probably not.

"Anyway," I said. "So what are we working with, exactly? Principal Clark mentioned documents and literature."

He nodded. "For the most part."

"How old are they?"

"I'm not sure."

I scowled. "Well, who did they belong to?"

"My family. Several generations back."

Fuck. He really couldn't tell me more than that. Fat load of help Aeneid was turning out to be. I shoved the thoughts aside and crossed my arms over my chest, considering what I knew.

"OK, so this could tell the story of an immigrant family, snapshot of different eras," I said. "Immigration? That could be interesting."

His eyes narrowed. "Think you can work with that?"

"I don't know." When his brow quirked and his lip curled, I rolled my eyes. "Don't act surprised. I can't know if I can work with something until I know exactly what I'm working _with_. Horses go _before_ carts, or so I'm told."

Ami cleared her throat, face a mask of pointed civility. I sighed. Couldn't get away with snark with her around, that's for sure…

"We should catalogue everything in the collection before deciding on how to display it, much less the theme of the display," I said. Aeneid quirked a brow. "Well, we're not going to display all of it. I imagine some pieces are going to be redundant. Some probably won't even be interesting. The best museum displays tell a story, so until I know every last piece of material we have, I won't be able to figure out what kind of story we're supposed to tell."

"Interesting," Aeneid said. Looked like he meant it, too, earlier derision vanishing under the weight of my meticulous explanation. Score. Don't underestimate me, beeyotch.

Amu frowned, meanwhile. Seemed I made sense to only one of the people in the room. She said, "I'm confused. Why don't you just put everything out for people to see?"

"Would you go to a museum exhibit called 'A bunch of random stuff from days of yore'?" I said.

Her nose scrunched. "Oh. Probably not. Now that you say it, yeah, museum exhibits have themes."

"Exactly. So we gotta look through everything and see what kind of story it tells, then set it up from there." I waved a hand absently, planning how I'd approach this project in my head. "Connect one family's history with broader historical context…a window to the past. A snapshot of antiquity. We'll see."

I caught Aeneid looking at me again, then. I met his gaze—eyes bright and blazing hot—with a proud smile. At that his own lips bent…more a sneer than a smile, really, but at least it wasn't a stone-faced glare like earlier. I'd take what I could get from this asshole.

"Seems like you actually know what you're doing," he remarked. Even in his velvety voice, that sounded suspiciously like an insult. He turned, walking to the back of the room. "This way."

We followed. He opened the door at the back of the lab. Beyond the door lay a large room, maybe thirty by ten feet, piles of wooden crates climbing halfway up the tall walls. There were at least three dozen crates at first blush; random dusty sheets had been draped across the slats. Ami sneezed when a draft stirred the dust. I blinked, eyes watering as fine granules turned them gritty.

"I don't know what's here." Aeneid eyed me askance, still sneering. "I trust you'll treat my family's possessions with care."

"Of course." I surveyed the crates, holding back a biting reply about only treating his possessions with care if they were worth something (call it a hunch, but I got the feeling the quip wouldn't fly). Some crates looked newer, wood gleaming and supple, but when I craned my head I saw crates at the back with dull, splintered planks. "And you don't know how old some of this might be?"

Aeneid said nothing for a minute. He stared out over the boxes in silence, eyes narrow beneath his hooded brow.

"This collection belonged to my father," he murmured. "I was told it goes back many generations."

Blue eyes slid my way, then. I wasn't sure what I saw in them. They'd lost the fighting spark from earlier, flat and dark and searching in a way I'm not sure how to describe—except, no, I _did_ know how.

It was the same haggard, hollow look I'd seen on my own face, eyes empty in the mirror after being asked about my parents one too many times.

I looked away quickly.

If this guy had familial baggage, I didn't want to get involved.

"OK," Ami said. She offered me a bright smile and started forward. "Let's get to work!"

"Not yet," I said, catching her arm. I didn't meet Aeneid's eyes when I asked, "Where was all of this kept before it was moved here?

"In a house on a property owned by my family."

"Did you help move it? Like, physically. Were you there when it was moved here?"

"Yes."

Well that was something, at least. "Where was this stuff kept?"

"A basement," he replied.

"Size, shape…?"

I looked at him, because he was looking at the crates and not at me. But when he started to look my way I turned my face aside.

"Similar to this room," he said.

"That's a relief." I thought a minute. "Does the configuration of boxes in this room mirror the way they were configured in that basement? I'm assuming so, if the room sizes and shapes are similar."

Ami frowned. "I don't understand."

"Let's say you had an empty room, and needed to store something in it," I said. "Where would you place that something inside that room—especially if you knew you'd have more to store later?"

She replied, "At the back."

"Right. You'd place it at the back, so when you brought in new items to store, you wouldn't have to climb over previous items to have a free spot to put the new stuff in. Which means the things at the back of a storage area are likely the oldest items in the collection, and stuff toward the front is newer."

"Archeological stratigraphy," Aeneid said.

That time, I didn't imagine it: he looked impressed. Openly impressed with me, lips curled at one corner, eyes lit up like gas flame.

Fuck, he was pretty.

Too bad his pretty face was also an ass-face.

"And you're right," he continued. "We carried everything out from front to back and placed it all in a truck. The first items were at the back of the truck, farthest from the door."

"So newer went in, followed by older," I said. "And during unloading, old came out first and was placed at the back of this room—mirroring how it was all set up in the previous space. Items up here are newer. Items at the back are older." Was pretty much talking for Ami's benefit at that point. I smiled at her (she looked as confused at fuck; I didn't blame her) and pulled my phone out of my pocket. Opening the camera feature, I waded into the room of boxes and started snapping photos.

"What are you doing?" Ami asked.

"This ain't amateur hour. Can't disturb the dig site before taking thorough record of said dig site."

She laughed. "OK, Indiana Jones."

"Sorry. I'm excited. This is just—really cool, you know?" I waved at the boxes. "First time I've ever gotten my hands on something like this. It's _neat_."

"If you say so." She walked up next to me, peering at the crates. Her nose wrinkled before she breathed a dainty sneeze. "Man, it's dusty. So what comes next?"

My reply came eagerly. "Labelling boxes, taking thorough record before disturbing them, cataloguing differences in crate type to perhaps determine an age pattern should their age-order have been corrupted during transfer—"

Ami pulled out her phone and took photos while I chattered, listening as I outlined my plan of attack. She wasn't into history like I was. Still, she easily kept up with my diatribe, making comments and asking questions as she learned the ropes of the task ahead. Smart as hell, Ami. I was lucky she wanted to help out…

After a solid ten minutes of picture-taking, I'd quite forgotten about Aeneid. When Ami's phone rang in her hand she skipped out of the room past him, where he hovered in the doorway of the crate-room like a watchful, blue-eyed sentinel. I flinched when I saw him. Bastard hadn't opened his mouth to talk in a while. What a creeper. Did he have a fetish for watching young women practice stratigraphy or something?

His intense, persistent stare in my direction didn't soften my opinion of him. He looked at me with a studious frown, as though trying to make a decision to which I was not privy—and since I was the subject of his stare, that pissed me right the hell off. What the fuck was he staring at? Get a life, loser.

When our eyes met, I made a face.

"What?" I said.

His stare didn't waver. "Nothing."

"That face is not 'nothing.'"

His frown turned into an outright scowl. "I didn't expect you to be so methodical. Knowledgeable."

My hackles rose. "Why?"

"Isn't it obvious?" He looked like he'd bit into a lemon. With distaste and undisguised scorn he elucidated, "You're in _high school_."

On reflex, I showed my teeth. "Yeah, because my age _totally_ invalidates me from being competent." Sarcasm dripped from every syllable. " _So sorry_ to disappoint you, professor."

"I'm not disappointed. I'm surprised," he replied, flatly.

"Well, can't say _I'm_ surprised," I snapped. "You're just like every other teacher in this damned school—underestimating people younger than you just because of their age, as if being born sooner somehow makes you superior."

Aeneid's eyes narrowed. All at once the urge to slap a hand over my mouth (and the urge to walk out on this asshole and never look back) surged to the forefront of my stupid, _stupid_ brain. What had I just done, letting my temper get the better of me? Fuck, Jira, why the hell had you just antagonized—?

"So I shouldn't judge people for their age, should I?" Aeneid said. Those narrow eyes and that firm mouth telegraphed barely-restrained aggression. "Why not, pray tell?"

"Because the kids at this school are smarter than you think," I replied, fight-or-flight lizard brain taking over in lieu of my more rational side. Ugh, thanks, hormones. Too bad I was too on a roll to stop my blabbering before it could land me in hot water. "You wanna be respected? Respect the kids and they'll respect you. They don't take patronization lightly. So watch yourself."

Aeneid's grimace faded somewhat. I didn't delude myself into thinking Ass-Face McGee actually looked contrite—maybe just thrown a bit off-balance, if I was lucky. I took advantage of his momentary silence and turned my back on him, clear indication I was done talking.

Well…almost done. Far be it from me to neglect getting in one last zinger.

"Listening to me must be a hard pill to swallow, since you're so superior," I said. I lifted my phone to take more photos. "But if you want to fit in, don't forget what I said."

For a minute I wondered if he'd just…walked off, maybe. Gotten pissed I'd snarked at him and stomped out on oddly quiet feet. Not that I cared. Fuck that guy. Go ahead and walk out.

Seems I was the one doing the underestimating just then. I'd underestimated his control of his temper—and that's why I flinched, startled when his silky, melodic voice cut the silence like the blade of a subtle sword. I just hadn't expected him to stay.

"I won't forget," he murmured.

Unable to look at him, I hummed an affirmative.

For the rest of the night I felt his eyes on me—but thankfully, he did not speak but to tell me goodnight when it came time to leave.

Not that that gave me much comfort.

This wasn't the last I'd seen of Aeneid, or his temper, or his distractingly blue eyes.

Our project together had only just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, this was a scene-setting chapter for the rest of the fic. The history project will provide the impetus for them spending time together, so it's important to define the work and workspace clearly.
> 
> Vergil was a total robot in the last fic, so I'll be making a point of showing how his thoughts about Jira develop. People who read the original know that there's a reason he's in her life, but his feelings on those reasons were never really explored. It's time to fix that.


	7. Untrusting Jerkwaffle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jira makes a discovery. Vergil evades answers.

I'd never had much of a social life, to be honest. Just wasn't a particularly effusive or gregarious person. Too much snark, too little patience to put up with the annoying rich brats at my school. I spent my days at school, then at home doing homework, unless it was the weekend. Then I'd sometimes hang out with Ami, or spend time at my part-time job in town.

A teacher once asked if I had enough friends, and if I ever got lonely. I told her no.

That was mostly true. Some of the time.

Anyway.

Once selected to curate Aeneid's family's heirlooms, my schedule changed. Not by too much, though. I still went to school every day, but now I spent a few hours in the library each evening and on Sundays, cloistered in the research wing where I laboriously unpacked and catalogued the boxes in the stockroom. I swear to Christ I inhaled a metric fuck-ton of dust, but hey. Coal miners get Black Lung, archeologists get Dust Wheeze. Comes with the territory, I guess. I kept a cloth tied over my face to keep out the worst of it, until Ami took pity on me and brought me a mask from a hardware store.

Ami was a huge help in the first few weeks. She never complained as we took copious photos and dragged boxes into the main room, even though she wasn't technically a part of the project and it was eating up a lot of her social time. But that was Ami for ya. Always read to lend a hand—and, at times, the simple virtue of her presence.

She didn't like leaving me alone with Aeneid any more than I liked being left alone with him.

Aeneid haunted the library research wing like a particularly handsome ghost, but to my delight he rarely actually spoke to me. Just asked a few questions here and there about what I'd found, ho hum, nothing of substance and nothing at all personal (even if his icy eyes seemed to monitor everything I did). Maybe Ami at my side kept him distant, or maybe he just knew better than to ask about what music I liked after the royal go-fuck-yourself speech I'd given him the last time he tried. He even ignored me in class, for the most part.

Far as I was concerned, this was ideal.

Not that he was ever out of sight for too long. He liked to sit in a wing-backed chair grading papers in the corner while I worked (but only on weekdays; he didn't come around on the weekends). At first I thought it was weird that didn't he grade papers in his office like a normal teacher, but Ami reasoned that since the boxes all belonged to him, and he was the project advisor, he probably felt he had to be in arm's reach while I worked. Made sense, but I still didn't like him being so near. Just let me work in peace, dammit! I wasn't a little kid who'd get grubby fingerprints on your granddaddy's stamp collection. Jeez!

I bit my tongue and kept those thoughts to myself as the first few weeks of the project passed. September turned into October without noteworthy incident. Most of the time I just ignored Aeneid, (and successfully, I might add), but on rare occasion I'd catch him looking at me as I bent over a box. He always looked away as soon as I noticed. Probably making sure I didn't break any of his family's precious antiques, that untrusting jerkwaffle.

…then again, I didn't really blame him. Although the boxes mostly contained documents—birth certificates, journals, and an odd plethora of shipping receipts for some reason—many of the objects I uncovered looked expensive, though since I was still in the early stages of unpacking and cataloguing, I hadn't yet had time to research any of them. But lemme tell ya, even without appraisal I knew some of them had to be worth something: a necklace of shimmering white and blue stones, a golden vase, ancient books, clothes from bygone eras preserved carefully in tissue paper, chests of old coins, a collection of iridescent beetles under glass, and more than a few antique swords spoke of a fortunate family steeped in Old Money.

And that's saying nothing of the ties to Fortuna.

I discovered said tie entirely by chance. Found it a tin box, battered and rusted, wrapped in a swatch of moth-eaten cloth at the bottom of a crate. The box rattled when moved, little metallic pings of something bouncing off the interior walls. For a few days I left it sitting on my workbench as I catalogued all the items on top of the box, but eventually I donned my dust mask and undid the latches on the box's front. With careful, gloved fingers I lifted the lid and removed the tin's contents.

My jaw pretty much dropped when I realized what I was looking at. The minute Aeneid walked into the lab about an hour later, I pinned him with a glare and said, "Your family is from Fortuna?"

It was less a question, more of a demand. He took it in stride. Shrugging out of his coat, he paid me little more than a cold glance as he walked toward my work table. I shifted atop the stool I sat upon when he got close.

"Why do you ask?" he said, but his eyes were already on the box and its exposed contents.

"These are fortuns," I said. I pointed at the eight silver coins sitting in a metal dish, then shifted toward the small leather-bound pamphlet in the tray next to them. "And I'm pretty sure that's a Fortuna passport, circa the 1820s."

The coins and the passport both bore the stamp of a man in profile, a man with aristocratic feature and curling ram horns spiraling from his temples. I knew the symbol of Fortuna very well; there was no mistaking it, nor the image of a winged sword on the tail side of the coins. I'd seen photos of Fortunian currency, and of their crests and sigils, too many time to not recognize them.

Recognize them, but not believe them.

I'd stared at the coins for almost ten minutes, silent with incredulity until the truth of them sank in.

Likewise, Aeneid stood transfixed at the edge of the table, staring at the coins and passport without speaking. His face didn't change, emotion absent from his cold blue eyes. Eventually I got tired of his stupid stoic act and rolled my eyes, huffing.

"Imagine my shock at finding a Fortunian _passport_ , of all things," I said. "I didn't know they needed passports. People hardly ever even left that place." I knew of none in recent years, in fact, and I'd once did a school project on the subject.

Aeneid reached for the coins. Thought better of it and pulled back his hand.

"They usually don't," he murmured, "but my family did."

I stared at him. He stared at the passport. Inside the passport I'd counted nearly three dozen stamps from various countries—some of them no longer in existence—from every single continent excepting Antarctica. The name in the front (no photo; too early a time period for that) didn't ring any bells. "Antonio Redgrave." Sounded more Italian and British than Fortunian—although Fortuna was mysterious. Maybe it was a typical Fortuna name, after all.

Fortuna, that lonely island stronghold playing home to a society so mysterious, the outside world considered it on par with lost Atlantis. That island whose people traded with few, and communicated with even fewer. Little was known about that place. Some people said it was actually a stronghold for a shadowy military organization. Others said it homed members of a doomsday cult. There was talk of an ancient religious order on the island, though no one had ever proven the truth of that. Aside from half-baked conspiracy theories, all that came out of the place was the occasional smuggled artwork and a few blurry photos—photos of people dressed in old-fashioned clothes despite our modern era, with a few outdated cars lining streets flanked by cathedrals. An anachronistic place, one removed from the flow of conventional time by the whim of its unknown leaders.

Fortuna was one of the single most mysterious places left in the world…and Aeneid's family was from there? And Aeneid's family had left the island and all its mysteries, just like that?

Was that even possible?

"Wow," I managed to blurt out. " _Wow_. That's incredible."

He didn't seem to share my sentiments. He just turned his cold blue eyes my way with a scowl.

"How did you recognize the coins?" he asked.

"I went through a Fortuna phase as a kid." I scowled, defensive as his eyebrow lifted. "What? All historians have a conspiracy theory phase. Some people like Stonehenge or the Bermuda Triangle, I liked Fortuna. It's basically the most mysterious place on earth aside from, like, North Korea, only without the dictator and human rights violations." My scowl deepened as a thought occurred to me, kicking my feet underneath my stool. His family had to have left for a reason, so… "It _isn't_ secretly like North Korea, right?"

His eyes slid away from my face, back to the coins, but he didn't look at them with my sense of wonder. He looked at them with a glare that put the setting sun to shame.

"It's a religious place." It was his turn to shrug. "An ancestor of mine didn't agree with their practices, and left."

"Oof. Theocracy, huh?" So it seemed the conspiracy theorists had gotten at least one thing right. Voice laced with irony, I said: "I imagine they do not take to heretical thinking very well."

He snorted, a sharp exhale through the nose. "You could say that."

"That's the beauty of America, I guess." More irony, considering the plethora of church advertisements preaching death to nonbelievers I passed on my way to school each day. "A nation built for religious freedom, even if that means freedom _from_ religion."

That earned me some eye contact, at last. He didn't say anything, though. He simply looked at me, sizing me up as if wondering at my motivations for speaking—yeah, that was it. Suspicion touched his eyes at the corners like subtle steel. I bristled in response. I was just making conversation. No need to get huffy, buddy.

Even though it probably wasn't wise to press him, I decided his rude ass didn't deserve much delicacy. I was curious, so fuck it. "Did your relatives ever talk about Fortuna?" I asked with a bold stare. "When did they leave? And which relatives of yours were from there, exactly?"

Blue eyes narrowed, color obscuring. "Why?"

"Well, making this exhibit about a family's flight from an oppressive religious regime would be a pretty interesting subject for this project," I said, "provided that's _actually_ why they left."

No reaction. He guarded his expression as securely as the island of Fortuna protected its walled shores. I rolled my eyes and sighed.

"Fine, whatever. Be that way," I said. "I'll figure it out eventually, probably. You'd just be saving time by spilling the beans now."

His lip curled over his teeth as I turned back to my workstation. "Manners, Miss Lancaster. It's impolite to pry."

Aeneid's dry, mocking tone set my teeth on edge. "It's also impolite to keep vital information from me considering the nature of this project," I snapped. "Impolite and unprofessional. Manners go both ways, _professor_."

I all but spat his title. His eyes flashed; with a flex of lithe muscle he rose to his feet, towering above my spot on the stool like a statue carved from malicious marble. I slid off my seat and backed away from him a few paces, movement spurred by instinct so animal I forgot how to think for a second. We just stared at one another, his eyes full of thunder and lightning, a hawk baring down on a helpless rabbit—and I knew I'd somehow crossed a line. Wouldn't let it show, though. I threw up my chin and heaved back my shoulders, doing my best to match his glare with a glower of my own, pathetic to him though it probably seemed.

I'm not sure how long we stood there trying to win that staring contest, but the spell broke when my phone rang in my pocket. I jumped, flinching at the bass-heavy rocky music blaring tinny from the speaker. Our eye contact broke at last.

Aeneid spun on his heel and walked away, toward the door.

Good riddance, douche-canoe. I turned my back on him, too, and answered the phone.

Sarita's voice greeted me with an apology and no preamble. "Sorry, J, but I can't drive you home tonight," she said. "I had a blowout on the freeway!"

"Oh, gosh," I said. I walked to the storage room door and braced an arm against the frame, phone cradled between shoulder and chin. "Are you OK?"

"Yeah, just had to put my car in the shop." She sounded thoroughly annoyed by this. Sarita had been driving me home for weeks now, intent on securing my safety since the Slasher still hadn't been found. "Are you OK getting home by yourself?"

"Yeah." I rubbed my eyes with my free hand, flashes of color and light bursting like fireworks beneath my lids. "Man, what time is it?"

"Late. Almost sunset."

"Ugh. Time got away from me. I might just sleep in the dorms with Ami or something."

"Good idea," Sarita said. "Better than you walking home alone."

I pulled my phone away from my chin and glanced at the time. "Well, I've still got an hour's daylight if I scurry."

The girl tutted. "Bad idea."

"Yeah, you're right." A lie; I planned on walking home in spite of her warning, but she didn't need to know that. "See you tomorrow?"

"For sure. Bye!"

"Bye."

She hung up. I stood there for a minute more, rubbing once again at my eyes as I considered my plans. I'd wanted to work a bit longer, but walking home after dark at this time of year would be somewhat unpleasant. The weather had already turned with a cold snap. Best get going soon if I wanted to make it home before night and cold weather—

"You live on your own."

I jumped. Aeneid stood maybe five feet away, hands jammed in the pockets of his slacks as he scowled in my direction. Sneaky bastard. I thought he'd left me in peace.

"Remind me to put a bell on you," I groused. "You keep scaring me."

"Perhaps you should attempt to be more observant," he deadpanned.

" _Manners_ , Mister Aeneid," I said, voice pitched low as I mocked his earlier command. Before he could berate me, I stalked past him and headed for the wing-backed chair in the corner. My stuff sat in a pile next to it. I hadn't been wearing my shoes; I sat down and began the process of putting them on.

Aeneid wandered after me, taking a long route around the work table like a panther stalking prey. I tried not to notice the way his fingertips trailed along the table's surface, skimming like dragonflies over still water.

"Answer the question," he said.

"You didn't ask a question," I snarked. "You made a statement. Not the same thing."

His scowl deepened; he spoke between gritted teeth. "Fine. _Do you_ live on your own?"

Suppressing a smirk (because I'd just won that little spar, thank you very _fucking_ much), I stood up and reached for my coat.

"That's better," I said, "and yes. I live on my own."

"Alone?" Aeneid asked.

I rolled my eyes as my jacket settled around my shoulders. "That's typically what 'on your own' means, as far as I'm aware."

He didn't rise to my bait (that bastard) and pressed on, asking, "You have no family here?"

" _Now_ who's prying?" I said. I grabbed my satchel and slug it over my shoulder. "And here I thought prying was impolite."

His fist clenched atop the work table. My eyes locked on it as if drawn there by a magnet. He pulled the hand to his side and out of sight. Aeneid wore an expression of barely-restrained impatience, desire to act—whether it be to snap at me or something else—itching behind his icy eyes.

Words bubbled from my chest before I could stop them.

"My aunt and uncle have a summer house here," I blurted. "They let me stay in it."

He relaxed, eyes losing some of their intensity. "Where are they?"

"Chicago."

"And where are your parents?"

"They're dead."

Euphemisms piss me off, so I didn't bother with any. I spoke the truth and let it hang in the air between us like a mist. Gotta admit that sometimes it's fun to watch people scramble for a platitude when I reveal the truth so bluntly, although I reserve that little trick for people I dislike.

Too bad Aeneid was so maddeningly unflappable. He didn't react at all negatively to my declaration. He just nodded. No apologies, no platitudes, no expressions of sorrow. Just casual acceptance of the facts, without drama or bluster.

And if I'm being honest…that was sort of nice. Most people tripped all over themselves to give me comforts I don't need when I told them the truth. But I never met my parents. It's hard to miss people you've never met.

Or so I told myself, anyway.

But I don't want to think about that.

"I see," Aeneid said. "So your aunt and uncle let you stay there alone?"

Wow. He wasn't going to ask how my parents died? That was rare. Rare, and appreciated. I didn't like giving this guy credit, but even I had to admit he deserved a little for his discretion.

My lips pursed of their own accord. "I'm 18, a legal adult. 'Let' isn't the right word. And the alternative to me living alone is them living here babysitting me." I smiled, though ruefully. "They prefer to just let me be. To just get on with their own lives."

Aeneid processed this for a moment. Then his brow furrowed.

He asked, "And living in the dorms isn't an option?"

The question rendered me momentarily silent. Why was he asking if I could live in the dorms? What purpose did that question serve?

I wasn't sure. All I knew was that I'd been bullied when I lived there in elementary and middle school, and that I had no desire to return to the dorms after that experience. Even reconciliation with Sarita couldn't budge my thinking. All I wanted was to lie low, to escape this school and make my own way in the world as soon as I possibly could.

But I didn't want to confess any of that to Aeneid.

Time to deflect, Jira. It's what you're good at.

"Sorry, but dorm life ain't for me," I quipped, tone light and comically crabby. "Too much glitter everywhere, and I'm too grumpy to share a communal bathroom. Would never get any fucking peace—"

I clapped a hand over my mouth. Luckily Aeneid only scowled when I cursed, and didn't inflict me with a detention. I smoothed a hand over the front of my pea-coat and cleared my throat.

"I mean, I'd never get any _fraction_ of peace and quiet in the dorms," I said in as prim a voice as I could muster. "I much prefer the solitude provided by my current living arrangement, thank you oh-so-very-much."

For a minute, Aeneid did not reply.

Then, in that voice of odd velvet, he murmured, "I can relate."

His face bore no expression whatsoever, aside from the barest hint of tightness at the eyes. He turned from me and gestured at the door.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Jira," he said. "Safe walk home."

I didn't answer him. It wouldn't have meant anything.

I just walked out the door.

* * *

The wind picked up as I journeyed home, a cold, biting force that made my teeth chatter in my skull. By the time I reached home, darkness had almost fallen. Sunset had started coming earlier and earlier as autumn faded into winter, and the temperature reflected the transition. My numb fingers trembled as I fumbled with the lock, eager for the blessed warmth of the indoors. I had already shut the door behind me when I realized I left the newspaper on the driveway; I dashed back out and grabbed the thing with liberal curses and more than a few dramatic shrieks.

When I had safely re-entered the house, the newspaper headline had me shrieking again:

THIRD VICTIM OF 'SLASHER' FOUND

POLICE SCRAMBLE FOR LEADS

I cursed under my breath. Sarita was right. I probably shouldn't have walked home, after all.

The article listed a scant summary of facts: scales and feathers, body found in several pieces at the ruins of a burned hours, etc. Same as the last killing. The victim—a twenty year old girl working at a bakery—had been heading for her country home, when for reasons unknown she abandoned her vehicle. Her body was found about one hundred yards away, butchered and bloody, head and legs disconnected from her torso.

Although she'd been found a few cities over, the police of my small town were now enforcing a curfew. No one was to go out alone after dark, and if travel by night was essential, we were advised to do it in large groups.

I gulped at the group thing. With night falling so early nowadays, trips home from the research lab fringed on twilight. Soon they would overlap with total darkness. If Sarita got another flat tire, I'd be stuck in the dorms.

But that would totally suck, so I didn't want to think about it. I ran my hands through my hair and tossed the paper on the kitchen table.

"Honestly, I'd be more scared if the media hadn't given this asshole that crappy name," I muttered as I fixed my dinner and started on my homework. The attempt to brace my nerves with humor worked; a smile cracked my worries like a hammer on ice. "The Slasher? C'mon. That's fuckin' _lame_."

Fuckin' cliché, that's what that name was. And with a name like that, I didn't have it in me to be scared for very long—even if there were dead girls just a few towns over.

I was just a kid, despite my status as a legal adult.

I had no way of knowing what was coming for me, nor what the Slasher intended to bring upon my sleepy little town.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So obviously the scene about Fortuna is brand new. Tying DMC4 into BBC this time around. The scene at the end, about loneliness, has dialogue lifted straight from the original story, but with more detail about Jira's living situation.
> 
> Vergil is sizing Jira up. What's he planning? 
> 
> Jira has the teenage mindset of being invincible. It's tough writing someone rude and reckless and unafraid when I am generally none of those things anymore. XD But I want her to feel her age, so I'm resisting my 26-year-old impulse to make her act cautiously. 
> 
> Things between Jira and Vergil start getting salty (for lack of a better word) next chapter.


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